You get so wise
talking to the plant
about the grilled cheese sandwich
you are making
in the middle of the night
all about guilt.
You think your thoughts
are mostly stolen
animal products too.
The moon in the window
is also a thief.
All light feels stolen,
if light is property
which seems a sacred idea
The moon in the night
like a yearbook in your mind
quietly assaults you.
You turn the sandwich
as a lover turns
a lover in a drawing
you can’t stop tasting
before you actually taste
yourself forbidding yourself.
Before you are the moon,
its shoddy accounting
and what it did with light
for billions of years
that it can’t explain
or won’t in this court
because it doesn’t even understand
it is a dark body
to other darkness.
look the sea
running after the waves
after a storm
calming back down
into yourself you sang
the sea everywhere
a lullaby for kelp
its sea cucumber children
the waves go overhead
we and they are wanderers
Energy in this room. Furnishings in this room. Particles of life. Photons. Papers with ideograms which are not always loyal. A television’s most sincere dreams. I cherish the t.v’s dreams like those of a bride. I feel a twinge when I must turn it off. It is like leaving a lover when I must leave the room. I close the door behind me, to let the television know that I am its protector. When I find dust on the forehead of the television, I could weep. But it lets me know how faithful my television is. When I see a television thrown out, lying with the garbage in a street, I feel an urge to rescue it. Even if it is dead, it deserves better. How could you not offer a decent burial to one of your closest living relations. What sort of animal lives in that house?
Keep your white hair, she says. I go around and walk around an artificial lake that has become real. With the snow and the geese, it has become real. There is no place not to be real. That is the unavoidable thing. Keep, she says, in a place where she is disappearing. She wants me to be old with her, to walk on the mountain that is disappearing. The mountain of us. I hear the single word Keep, and all through the night like my reflection in the dark plate glass of the artificial lake. A radio has been left on, somewhere in the night. Which is no longer a thing. Now it is a piece of paper I could hand to you. The lake, the geese that no one wants, that no one will bury, the ice they walked on, verifying existence. Their nests, your nests. It lives inside a piece of paper. As you will, soon enough.
The sound the drain makes
After it has swallowed its full share
When I spoke his name today
Walking under trees of a street
Enjoying being alone in the rain
There was a slow hiccuping of the darkness
All around me, possibly from the earth
Not that he didn’t have a halo
Of car crashes and beautiful daughters
Whatever could distract him
Begrudge him nothing of that now
Now nothing begrudge him
Nothing he did in the ghost of cups
Even his unflattering death
No more crime to the queer gods
Than wearing an ill-fitting suit
One moment in their sight
Think about the shadow of work
All our lives we were there
Just as in love
We were under someone’s shadow
Long dark scroll of hair
On the nape of a neck
When we visited the ocean we stared at it
From long rows of metal chairs
We were an army of the paralyzed
It was okay to be obliterated by wincing blue light
Is the hawk passive as it flies
Looking for blood to become hunger
Our dreams wonder to themselves
While we are asleep and paralyzed
In between asking themselves
If we are the real ones
If we are the real thieves
The space from zero to one is finite.
This is one unit. The space from zero to one
is infinite. There are these irrational intrusions,
something like thoughts, that go on forever.
The space from zero to one is no different
than any other space termed span.
The truth is that space is always opening like a hand.
We have only this conceit of span. If you look at a landscape
enough years, much longer than you possibly can,
you would see that green park elongating and rarefying
to a thing we’d sooner call a space than span.
Just think. All of that emptiness was already in it,
when you saw a child get on one of those swings
and pump her legs until she was nothing but joy
surrounded by stars and a funny darkness so loose
it could be anything or anyone at all.